


The Misadventures of Bro and Dave

by Crono



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Brother Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crono/pseuds/Crono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The various outings, life, and times of the Strider brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Misadventures of Bro and Dave

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Dave to my Bro.

“Bro. Bro. Hey, Bro.”

Dave was pounding at the door with his usual laid back urgency. The handle clicked open and Bro instinctually threw a smuppet at the intruder, who dodged it, and, being the typical little shit that he was, threw it back at his older Bro, who was now fully awake but still refusing to move in defiance of the standard of actually getting out of bed on a Sunday morning. The smuppet would see its last day, as countless others had who followed this routine to a dime, at the extended blade of Bro’s sword, slicing it perfectly in two with each half landed with their counterparts in an ever-growing pile of smuppet halves. It was a ritual neither Strider had any interest in doing over and over, but they had both grown to appreciate it, ironically of course.

“Bro. Get up, you fuckin’ lazy ass.”

And now the little shit was poking him in the side with that same half-assed determination he had used to enter the most chill of domains. Still sticking it to the (sleeping) Man, Bro swatted at Dave’s hand without getting up, hoping he’d just eventually go away. But he never did. He never fucking did. The poking continued until finally Bro rolled over, his shades resting perfectly on his face. He never actually wore them to sleep, but he’d be damned if he would ever let anyone have the glorious privilege of seeing his eyes unshaded, including his brother.

“The fuck do you want?”

“We have no fucking food.”

“Check the fridge?”

“Swords and other assorted pieces of shit.”

“Cabinets around the stove?”

“Video equipment, you creeper.”

“Pantry?”

“Smuppets.”

“Other pantry?”

“Other smuppets.”

“Last resort hidden cupboards?”

“Katana to be used in case of ironically misplaced actual katana.”

“Shit, really?”

“Yes. We are officially out of food.”

“Fuck. Fine, give me a second.”

A half hour, a legendary infinite shower, and lots of Dave’s whining later, the Strider brothers were on their way to the grocery store. Bro drove the biggest piece of shit car imaginable, despite having the money to afford several much better cars. Irony was not just an art, it was a lifestyle, and he would be damned if he would ever be outdone in ironic endeavors. However, he wasn’t willing to sweat to death, so he had shelled out some cash to have decent air conditioning installed. That, and any more days of Dave’s “It’s so fucking hot why don’t you drive a better car asshole I can’t take this” and he would have killed someone.

Dave sat quietly in the passenger seat, looking out the window and avoiding any sort of visual contact with his Bro. He was the poster boy of irony, but he was such a fuckin’ moron sometimes. How had they seriously run out of anything remotely edible? Most people had random boxes of pasta or weird cans of “cream of some shit” lying around, at the very least. Fuck, even those mystery packets of what-could-be-oatmeal-but-actually-turned-out-to-be-hot-chocolate or some other stupid shit. But there was nothing. He had unknowingly eaten the last bag of chips last night when he was in the middle of an epic rap creation session, one that he knew was going to trash Bro. At least, in theory. A very shaky theory because sweet shit that guy came up with some lyrical rampages. But shit, had he known that was all he’d have to eat in the morning, he would have cooled it on lines 50-58. Those were the most intense and had required constant munching in order to make it through.

The store was only a couple blocks away from their apartment, but neither one of them had any desire to carry the amount of grocery bags they both knew would be coming home with them. Also, Dave and Bro both knew the other to have incredibly awful bouts of laziness, especially when it came to lugging shit around. The car was a necessity. Parking in the handicap space, (because Bro had actually managed to convince the DMV that he had a walking impediment and that his katana wasn’t actually a fuckin’ weapon but a cane designed to look like a fuckin’ weapon) the brothers grabbed four grocery carts and linked them together, with Bro steering at the front cart and Dave, who Bro swore needed the workout because he was a “skinny little babbu”, was pushing.

“Let’s get some marshmallows this time, Bro.”

“The fuck, why?”

“Because maybe I had the urge to make a s’more a couple of nights ago, why the hell does it matter?”

“Are you going to go out camping, because I would be really fucking impressed at any ability of yours to successfully start a fire on purpose.”

“Fuck you, it’s not my fault you left your smuppets in the over when I wanted to bake a damn pizza!”

“You should know by now to check every time.”

“No, you shut your fucking mouth. Smuppets shouldn’t be in the oven in the first place.”

“Calm your tits. My apartment, my smuppets, my do whatever the fuck I want with them. Subject closed. Moving on. You gonna grab the big marshmallows?”

“No, those are stupid and way too big. I wanted the smaller ones.”

“Seriously? You want the bitch-sized ones? What the fuck, little bro? I thought you had at least a little bit of cool in you. I’m starting to question it now…”

“Shut up! The big ones are fucking stupid and the small ones can be used in a lot more things besides s’mores!”

“No bro of mine is getting baby’s first marshmallows. At least get the boring regular sized ones. Don’t pussy out.”

“Ugh, fine. Better than those massive ones.”

The bag of marshmallows fell into the empty cart, followed shortly by graham crackers and a package of chocolate. The Striders then engaged in the all too familiar scrambling back and forth among the various aisles of the store, often going back to a previously visited one because their grocery lists were mental only and based entirely off impulse and hunger. Both would agree it was the absolute shittiest way to go about grocery shopping, but neither felt it necessary to actually sit down and write out a list like the rest of the world. Lists were for chumps, Bro always said. Dave had been initially hesitant to agree with him, but soon felt more compelled to shop on a whim after their first and last horrible attempt of thinking up all the food and shit they needed. The living room had become a mess of paper that neither one picked up for the next couple days.

Several bags of chips and bottles of soda later, the two came across their favorite aisle: frozen food. Nothing worked better in their college-level diets than microwavable and easily baked meals. Bro was quick to toss in a bunch of frozen pizzas, buffalo chicken, and his go-to source of nourishment: Hot Pockets. Dave, on the other hand, had a taste for taquitos and other frozen Mexican foods. Though nothing beat the ironic quality taste of Taco Bell, microwavable burritos and quesadillas were more than satisfying. Bro had always insisted that it wasn’t really Mexican food, but Dave was quick to retort that Bro actually knew how to cook and decently well too, enough so that eating Hot Pockets was a disgrace to his culinary prowess. Bro would then drop the subject and the two would go about enjoying their shitty food.

The freezers were raided and the grocery carts were growing more and more full, becoming a lot more difficult for Dave to push around. Bro insisted, though, that it wasn’t that much, even though Dave was started to let out groans of discomfort. Eventually Bro had to help pull everything along, much to Dave’s both comfort and self-loathing. With four carts full of next to nothing that could be considered healthy by the FDA, the brothers moved to check out, satisfied with the haul for the day. The cashier’s demeanor dropped from minimum wage depressed to clinically unfit for regular life at the sight of the Striders’ stock.Another half hour and plastic bags stacked upon plastic and they were out the door, cramming everything they could into the trunk before moving to the back seats and even some of the front passenger floor. Dave huddled into a ball for the short drive back.

The two starred up their apartment complex simultaneously, with looks of utter disgust. Both gave a quick glance to the other, back to the car full of groceries, then back to their building. Bro nodded to himself, and went inside, leaving Dave stanging alone with a car full of food. A few minutes later and Bro emerged, pushing a large cart.

“Maintenance?”

“Maintenance.”

“Thank fucking goodness.”

Loading their treasure quickly, they pushed it onto the sole elevator and jammed themselves into the spare room. They both let out a groan as the god awful music started to play. Formal complaints in the form of letters, e-mails, and smuppets had been sent to the landlord about removing Satan’s ear torture, but they had never gotten a response. Bro chalked it up to the Landlord being intimidated by his demeanor; Dave felt it was moreso old anger from the time he and Bro had used all of the flights of stairs as an indoor water slide. Hell, they had even broken the speaker several times, only to find it was repaired a few days later each instance.

“You haven’t been slacking on your electrical wiring studies, have you, you little shit?”

“No, douchebag, and stop taking my sayings, Bro!”

“Be grateful that I even pick up on some of your shit.”

The two arrived on their floor and with a sigh of relief, pushed the cart to their door. As they were about to enter, though, Bro froze.

“…fuck.”

“Bro, did you fucking leave the keys in the car again?”

“No, they are in the apartment this time.”

“…we’re busting down the door again, aren’t we?”

“Less talking, more kicking, little bro.”


End file.
